


Clean

by serenityandroses



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, POV Katniss Everdeen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityandroses/pseuds/serenityandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Growing Back Together weekend on Tumblr. Katniss and Peeta wake up to find it raining in the District. Pure Fluff. Everlark. Written from Katniss's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean

I’m not sure what wakes me first— the sound of the stupid cat whining or the sound of the first rain of the year. But whatever it is, I am pulled out of my content sleep to face it. Peeta is oblivious to the interruption, having come to bed much later than normal to finish a painting. And while I’m tempted to wake him up, the last few nights have been hard on him. 

His nightmares seem worse the closer to Reaping Day. 

“Stupid cat.” I mutter to him, slipping out of the warmth to let him out. While our bedroom window was open, he seems to be losing his sight with old age. He can’t come and go as he pleases, at least not on the second story. He follows the sound of my footfall. We are both careful to avoid the creaky step at the bottom of the landing. Even the mangy old cat has become attune to Peeta’s needs. 

I give him day old bread scraps before he saunters out the door. 

As a child, days like these would have me out in the woods as soon as possible. I used to know where all the nests were. And just most humans, animals tend to want to stay dry. All it took to rouse them was noise. They would shoot out to find a new hide out, making it an easy and profitable day. My father’s old coat was perfect for keeping out the rain, and it was still warm enough for the rain to be a pleasant change.

I would take a thermos of hot water so that I could scavenge some wild herbs for tea, making a meal mid day with something I’d caught. They were some of my favorites day. 

Today, I have no plans into going out into the woods. 

Instead, I plan on spending a day with Peeta. 

From upstairs, I hear the tell-tale, uneven footfall as he wakes and I make a point to be a little louder. With his episodes picking up frequency, I don’t want to ruin this day by starting it out with him believing I am gone. I am using the grater to add chocolate to the hot milk when he appears at the entry to the kitchen, shirtless and disheveled from sleep. He’s frowning when he looks at me, but it isn’t one that worries me. His eyes are bright, playful. 

“Help me out here.” He said, making his way over to my side with a slow, steady pace. “When I went to bed, you were all about stealing my warmth.” His arms come from behind as he nuzzles his face into my hair. “When I want the same, you leave? Unfair, Miss Everdeen.” 

My laughter is soft, “Buttercup wanted to enjoy the rain.”

He growls into my hair and I think I hear him say something about the cat, but he distracts me by placing a gentle kiss on the hallow of my throat. This kind of affection is still relatively new for us. We’ve been sleeping together for months, keeping away the nightmares like we did after the Games. We’ve been tentative to do anything more than that, not wanting to push each other until we are ready.

But caring for Peeta is easy when I am reminded of how far we both have come. 

His smile is evident in his voice, “We should install a cat flap.”

“He’d cry anyway. I don’t know if he’d be able to find it.” The thought of losing the cat brings an unexpected sadness. When it dies, there will be nothing left that belonged to Prim. I shake away the though, determined to enjoy this day without any chance of mental breakdowns. “I was hoping to have more done for breakfast, but you foiled my plans.” I turn in his arms, handing him a cup of chocolate. While we have abandoned most anything that reminds us of the Games, this one delicacy has stayed with us. 

He steps back enough to grab it from my hands, taking a sip while it is hot. “You used my good chocolate.” There is no anger in his voice, just surprise. There is an easier way to make it, with powder and water. But this way is richer, better. 

He can tell that I’m up to something, but chooses not to bring it up. 

I try to tell him that I’m not hungry, but he’s insistent on making breakfast together. He pulls on an old sweater out of the dirty pile to be washed and gets to cooking. I know this is for his own good as much as my own, so I settle onto the counter besides him. He’s taking slices of day old nut bread and dipping them in a mixture of eggs and spices. It’s an easy meal for him to make. I remember him telling me about it on the train— his father would make it on Sundays, when the bakery didn’t open till late and everyone got to sleep in. 

Seems we are both feeling nostalgic today. 

I love watching Peeta create, whether its in the kitchen or at the easel. I think that him cooking is my favorite though. When he paints, he’s always so focused, so difficult to distract. But in the kitchen, he’s far more at ease with what he creates. He’s easy to talk to, and his hands are far more involved. His stance is relaxed at the stove, cooking the pieces of bread and stacking them onto a plate. I can admire his profile from here, sharp lines of his jaw and the day old beard on his chin. I resist the urge to bury my hands in his hair, instead weaving my fingers through his strong ones. 

I don’t care that it takes him twice as long to cook.

While he’s bringing the food to the small table in the kitchen, I decide to open all the windows on the lower level. Who needs music when you have the steady fall of rain? I should build a fire, too, if I plan on keeping the windows open long. But the sudden growl of my stomach is all I need to return to the table and to Peeta’s side. 

Our hands touch the entire meal. If it’s not in a casual grazing when we pass the little crock of butter, it’s pinkies hooked on top of the table. Our touches have been accidental up until this time. But some unspoken agreement occurred this morning and the barrier of nervousness has been broken.

Maybe it's the rain. The reminder of everything we have been through, of where we started out. His first real gesture of love was that bread, tossed in the rain. Abuse taken to give— he was like that. Selfless, kind, compassionate. Maybe the rain reminds me of that fact. That he is always unremarkably kind. Always giving, rarely taking. 

Haymitch said it best. I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him.

We clear the dishes together, but I tug him towards the living room before he can think about cleaning up. I tuck him into the couch, tightly wrapping him in a thick blanket before moving to the stove to build a fire. Years of practice make the job easy and within minutes, the fire is roaring to life in the hearth. The gentle fall of rain, mixed with the heat from the fire and a bundled Peeta reminds me so vividly of the cave. 

I may have been confused about my feelings then, but I know for sure that I truly care for this man. It’s no longer self preservation. It’s the pure desire to keep him as my own. 

I waste no time moving into his open arms as he cocoons the blanket around us. My back pressed to his chest, head settled back against the firm shoulder. I fit there; I always have. There is no doubt in my mind that his gentleness is what I’ve always needed. The Games may have broken us in ways we never could have imagined, but they brought us together, too. 

“We kept each other warm in the cave. Real or not real.” He whispers in my ear, sending chills down my body. Sometimes, he plays this game with me just to break the surface, to bring clarity to fond memories. We’ve talked about the cave several times, and he is very well aware of the circumstances. And of what really happened. Still, sometimes he asks this to remind me of his own love. And how long he’d felt that way. 

I smile, weaving my fingers into his. “Real. You had blood poisoning and had a hard time keeping warm. Body heat worked well. That and it looked good for the cameras.”

There is a seriousness in his voice when he says, “No camera now.” My hand tightens in his. “No Games left to win.”

I don’t miss the gentle question in his voice, the slight doubt he has in my actions then. I wonder if this is the start of an episode, if the rain has caused the edges of his vision to go shiny like they do when he has a bad day. I turn in his lap so that we are face to face, my hands grasping his cheeks so that I know he is focused. There is mirth in his eyes, not the glazed over dilation I thought I would see. He’s grinning at me, at my concern. But it’s not in mocking— no he’s happy to know that my affection is genuine. “No Games left to play.” 

His face lights up. And whether it is the fire in the room or the heat of his gaze, my stomach tumbles with the gentle burn of it. Seeing him happy makes me happy, in a way I never thought I could be happy again. My thumb runs gently on his cheek, painting the contours of his face with my hands. 

We sit like this for hours, he and I face to face with only the sound of water bouncing off of the difference surfaces of the District. Neither of us are in a hurry to break the moment, just like we were on the roof before the Quell. We play ‘Real or Not Real’, the questions all generally pointless, confirming things we both already know. He asks about the kind of bread we ate in the arena, the soups we could have spent weeks trying in the Capitol. I ask him about memories of his childhood, things that are difficult to talk about but make him happy regardless. 

We fall into a comfortable silence, his hands lost in my hair, settled into his lap. I’m a little antsy, and he can tell. I can’t help myself, can’t help the way my eyes light up with mischief. 

Moments later, I’m tugging him out into the rain. 

He is looking at me like I’m crazy, but I really don’t care. 

There is a joy in creating new memories together. In making something that the Capitol has no way of touching. It doesn’t take long for us to get drenched, but it’s a warm rain and neither of us seems to mind. We are laughing as we weave through the Victor’s Village, enjoying the empty streets. We are the only ones who are out, most of the people who’ve returned to Twelve choose to stay inside. 

We keep close, jumping in puddles and leaving prints in the mud. 

I know we shouldn’t stay out too long, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen Twelve looking like this. There has been so much pain in the last few years. The rain used to wash the coal dust into the ground, and now it rinses away the scars of destruction from the fires. And while I know it can’t remove the ones left by the parachutes, it makes everything feel new again. 

It makes me feel new again. 

No, it doesn’t wash away the memory of my sister’s death. It doesn’t make the loss of my best friend any easier. But from the moment I woke up this morning, I felt the change, and this walk has made it feel real. 

It lasted all of 30 minutes. But the time we’ve circled back to the house, he and I bring half of the mud on the stoop in with us. Neither of us care. I’m giggling as we climb the stairs to the room we’ve been sharing. Peeta insists that I take the shower first. And if I was braver, I would pull him in with me. 

I would pull off his shirt, strip him out of his wet things and insist he join me. I don’t want to waste time without him. But I can’t bring myself to do it. My cheeks flush at the line of thought and I retreat into the bathroom alone. I ignore Peeta’s puzzling look as the door closes. 

I don’t take too long, pulling on a sweater and jeans with my hair dried by the technology left over. But the room is empty when I step out into it. I try not to panic, making my way downstairs. As I get closer, I hear him in the kitchen. Turning the corner, I see him and relax. He must of went back to his house to shower. It’s apparent that he didn’t want to spend time apart either. 

Kissing his shoulder blade, I open the back door to the kitchen and settle onto the ground. I hear him move around behind me, the distinct opening and closing of the oven. Peeta settles into the ground opposite of me. Our feet touch, but that’s it. I can’t help but feel content, sneaking peeks at him when I think he’s not looking. He catches me and I’m blushing, and oddly enough, he is too. I’m about to scoot over to him when the timer buzzes, alerting him to the finished food in the oven. 

He’s gone for longer than I’d like, but when he comes back, he’s handing me a napkin with a thick cut of bread. I immediately recognize the dark loaf, the hearty nuts and dates that saved my life so many years ago. He’s buttered it, the warmth of the bread melting it. “Always this with rain.” I say with a soft smile. 

His cheeks are pink. “Always. I’m rectifying a mistake I made a long time ago.”

“Oh?”

He grins, settling onto the floor once again. “Yeah. I should have just given you the damn bread myself.” We both laugh, pressed hip to hip as we watch the rain. The bread is better warm and fresh, sweet with the butter on top. All luxuries I didn’t know the first time I ate it. 

I finish the piece, watching him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind as he eats one of my favorite signs of hope. If I’d found any dandelions on the walk, I probably would have gathered them for a salad.

Since when am I so sentimental?

He’s about to stand, but I reach out to stop him. Like this morning, I hold his face in my hands. But this time, I don’t hesitate to rest my forehead against his. Or my lips. I only get a quick look at the surprise on his face before my eyes close. But there is no resistance from him. No, his hands move to my hair, holding my face to his. Lips soften, this kiss one of the few we share in private. 

But it’s the first since returning home. 

I expect him to pull away. When he doesn’t, I deepen the kiss. 

There is just us. Us and the rain.


End file.
